The Curious Misunderstanding
by Ennya
Summary: What if Jim Moriarty felt he owed you a debt? And what if you, smitten as you were, truly didn't know who - or what - Jim Moriarty was? MoriartyXOC.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: How long ago did I say I was gonna write this? Like, a million years go...anyway, here it is, my first Sherlock story, a Moriarty/OC :P. It's difficult to know where to place this story in relation to the series. I would almost consider it slight AU. But we'll see when we get there. I hope you enjoy. :)

**The Curious Misunderstanding**

**Chapter One**

** /**

I was drunk, and not that fun, giggly, tingly, I-wanna-dance-and-then-I-need-French-toast-with-whipped-cream drunk; walking home shortly after last call had become a _baaaad_ idea: the street seemed endless, the fog in the streetlights was thick, and the more I dug around for my phone in my purse, the more bottomless my purse became. Luckily I was wearing flats and not my heels or I most definitely would have fallen, broken my ankle, and passed out in the street.

I recalled the conversation I had with Nigel only a few hours before, how he told me to go home and let it all out, do whatever I needed to do, whether it was smoke a lot of weed or cry my eyes out or devour a couple of pints of ice cream, or rip the manuscript in half and burn the pieces, whatever, whatever it was that would help me through it - just so long as I was at home, where my landlady was close, where the landline was available. And of course I, like the idiot I am, opted out of junk food and my warm, cozy little flat with the big green chair in front of the little telly and my bed piled up with throw blankets for a tiny, seedy, smoke-filled pub sucking down rum and Cokes and sour jacks and stale pretzels and letting my thoughts melt away with the crappy music from the jukebox.

In reality my flat was only a few blocks away from the pub, so I turned down the bartender's offer to call me a cab; mistake. Mi**stake**.

I was dizzy and my stomach began to churn and gurgle with nausea; my steps were less than steady and my eyes were less than dry. Truth be told, I'd started crying as soon as I left the pub. It'd been bottled up all day, just waiting to come out, and as soon as I was out in the darkness, down it came, steady streams of hotness, though I was able to keep from sobbing too loudly. As I walked, I rolled up the sleeve of my jacket and pressed it against my cheeks in a fool's effort to dry them; I had to get home at some point that night, and the added tears to the drunkenness wasn't helping the cause.

And yet I couldn't help it. I simply couldn't help it.

I began to walk more briskly, or at least as briskly as I could, as the air suddenly seemed to grow cold, and my stomach started to gurgle, and I realized much to my immediate relief that I was only a few blocks away from my flat.

I turned a corner and came to a slow halt as I beheld something on the sidewalk not fifteen feet away from it. Although the street was dark, I could make out an ever darker shape, large and elongated, and as I stood there staring at it, trying to figure out what it was, I took in the shimmering glints of broken glass, and even drunk as I was, I realized just what the fuck it was. It was a body.

I gasped and ran forward and collapsed to my knees, way too harshly onto the concrete, and after a wince, I caught myself against the sidewalk by planting my palms down firmly on the cement right next to the man, planting three fingers directly into a small pool of spilled blood. My purse fell right onto the body and toppled to the sidewalk on the other side amongst the shatters of broken glass.

"Mister?" I said loudly, reaching out to put a hand on the shoulder of the body and roll it onto its back. The fabric between my fingers was dark and quite fine, almost like silk. "Mister, are you okay?"

His head lolled towards me, and even with my vision impaired by stinging eyes and inebriation, I looked down upon a lovely man's face with the most pristine features, almost boyish in appearance, really, with dark brown hair astray and his pink lips open just the slightest and the longest, thickest eyelashes I'd ever seen on a man resting peacefully on his cheekbones. I was too inebriated to check for his breath with the back of my hand against his mouth and instead pressed my ear hard against his chest, listening hard for a heartbeat, and gasping way more dramatically than I should have when I heard just the slightest lub-dub.

"You're alive," I told him, as if he was conscious and could respond to my observation. "Oh thank christ, you're alive."

I sat up on my knees and looked over him, able to stay still for a moment before my head began to spin and I had to catch myself before crashing to the sidewalk myself. My knee brushed a shard of broken glass but I barely felt it as I reached for my purse, over the body, and held it upside down to dump its contents; everything came out: tampons and my wallet and a water bottle and my manuscript - fucking everything_ except_ my damned mobile! I frantically sought through my scattered belongings amongst the broken glass, glancing at his face as I did it.

"Don't worry, mister," I slurred. "I'm gonna call an ambulance. We'll get you to a hospital right away!"

There was no answer, but of course I wasn't expecting one. The wind began to sweep his brown locks across his forehead and I really had to pull my attention away from him to search for the bright blue of my phone case against the dark mixture of cement, broken glass, and blood. For a moment panic really surged through me as I thought maybe I'd left it at the pub - though I didn't remember looking at it while I drank after getting off the phone with Nigel - but it seemed like the only other reasonable explanation to its misplacement.

I groaned and looked back at the man's face, wondering if he had a phone on him that I could use to call the ambulance, though it didn't seem right to go rifling through his suit pockets. But the longer I knelt there by his side, the more agitated I got. "Mister," I told him, leaning right over him and basically bellowing it into his unconscious lovely face. "Mister, I gotta look in your clothes for your mobile, kay?"

It occurred to me that anyone walking by on a jaunty evening stroll through the London streets would have observed the whole scene and stopped in horror, maybe indignation; just this woman drunk off her ass fumbling around a body lying in a pool of spilled blood and broken glass, shouting in his face while he was obviously totally unable to respond. They might have called the police to report some real weird activity...in which case I'd be able to get this poor beautiful guy the help he needed.

I took in a couple of hard, heavy breaths, trying to calm myself down a little as I pulled open his jacket and looked through it with fumbling fingers, but I couldn't feel anything hard resembling a phone or a wallet or anything, and the absence of anything helpful caused only further upset and agitation. I remember I was about to burst into sobs when I reached over his body once more and frantically searched for my phone amongst the rest of the crap that I'd let fall out of my purse. It had to be there somewhere.

"C'mon, goddamn it!" I said to no one in particular as my fingertips brushed glass shards and my keys.

And then I saw the light of what was obviously car headlamps directly behind me. I sat up and looked over my shoulder but could barely seen anything, blinded by the light, and as I held up one hand to block it out, I had to fall back and catch myself on my other hand against the cement. The car stopped directly in front of us and the lights turned off, and while I blinked to help my eyes adjust to the darkness, I heard a door open and close, and heard footsteps on the sidewalk coming towards us.

"Oh thank god," I said, and started to wave my arms around as though whoever it was couldn't see us. "Help me, help! You have to help!"

A man fell to his knees directly beside me, looking down at the unconscious man with a look of great horror and distain written on his face. He was a stupidly tall man, pale, blond, older, and it was only after he pressed his fingers to the man's throat that he sighed a little at relief that he was still alive and finally turned to me with a scornful look. "Who the hell are you? What happened?"

I was taken aback, appropriately. "I was just walking along and-and I saw him on the sidewalk here!" I could feel the tears rolling down my cheeks and I had no idea whatsoever why I was crying. "I tried to call an ambulance but I can't find my _fucking _phone-"

"No!" The man insisted, right in my face, making me jump. "No ambulances, no cops! Who did you call?"

"I didn't call anyone, I can't find my fucking phone!" I held out my empty hands as if to emphasize this point.

"Shit," the man snarled under his breath, no longer paying attention to me, and then he got up on his feet and bent down, carefully managing his arms under the man's knees and then his shoulders. I watched the giant lift up the unconscious man as easily as he could have picked me up, looking up at him from where I knelt on the sidewalk, while fragments of glass fell off the man's jacket and between the folds of his trousers.

The blond giant looked down at me, scowling. "Don't just sit there," he spat at me. "Open the back door to my car, now!"

I don't know how I did it, given how I was a mess of drunk and crying and bleeding from my knee and fingertips, but somehow I managed to climb to my feet and make my stumbling way over to the black car parked on the curb, pressing my palms against the window to keep from falling right into it, and I pulled on the handle to the back door and managed to pull it open without falling flat on my face.

I watched the giant very carefully load the unconscious man into the back seat of the car, and I jumped back in surprise when the giant slammed the back door and looked at me quite severely, and then he pointed his finger in my face. "You don't repeat what you saw here tonight, you got it?"

It might have been because I was already crying, but I felt a fresh batch of hot tears fall over my cheeks, simply in terror; the man was terrifying. I held out my hands and nodded. "I won't, I swear, I just wanted to make sure he was okay!"

"He's gonna be just fine," the giant said. "But you don't repeat anything you've seen, you hear me? Say it!"

"I won't say anything!" I told him, sobbing. "I don't even know what I saw! Is he okay?"

The giant wasn't interested in anymore of my babbling; he must have seen how drunk I was and figured I really wouldn't remember what had happened, because the next thing I know he had completely abandoned me where I stood, rounded the car, got into the driver's seat and started it up. I had only a split second to jump back away from the vehicle before it peeled away from the curb and disappeared down the street.

I stood there for a long time, it seemed, just trying to comprehend what happened. I looked down at the glass and the blood on the sidewalk, along with the entire contents of my purse, and shook my head, barely able to understand that only a few minutes ago, there had been a man lying there, unconscious and bleeding. I looked back up to where the car had disappeared, but there was no trace of it whatsoever; it was completely gone into the night, along with the blond giant and the lovely man he'd jammed into the back seat of his car.

Sighing heavily, I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how cold it had gotten, and I went over to my purse to pick up all the shit I'd thrown all over the place and make my way home as soon as possible. It'd been a shit day, a _real _shit day, and finding the poor guy on the sidewalk and dealing with his grouchy friend hadn't helped it improve in the least.

I knelt down and gathered everything I had spilled on the sidewalk close to me and then reached for my purse and opened it wide to throw things into it. Still no sign of my phone, and I realized with another sob that I'd obviously left it at the bar and I'd have to go retrieve it the next day when all I wanted to do was curl up in bed and die.

When I had everything in my purse, I managed to sling it over my shoulder, grabbing my manuscript and then hoisting myself up to my feet, looking down at the thing in my hands and feeling the need to cry harder than I remember when it all came crashing down on me, once more; failed the defence. Could try again, but it'd probably be in a few months, probably six months. Maybe a year. It was all over.

I closed my eyes tightly and took a few deep breaths of cold, late London air, and then I started to walk back down the sidewalk, towards my flat, stepping over the spilled blood and the broken glass, giving it a last fleeting glance and remembering the face of the man I'd found.

On my way past a bin, I stopped to throw my manuscript inside as hard as I could, and then I shoved my hands into my pockets and proceeded to walk, as fast as my condition would allow, down the road the rest of the way home.

/

After somehow finally getting home and making a feeble attempt to put bandaids on my bleeding fingers and knee, you can imagine my dismay when I shimmied out of my jeans and realized my mobiel had been in my jeans pocket the whole damn time.

/

The plan was to curl up and sleep until I either starved to death or died from bed sores, whatever came first; sadly, I was only about five hours in when my phone started to ring and I, like an idiot, answered it on impulse, reaching for it blindly with my hand and then pressing it to my ear without bothering to check the caller ID. "Hello?"

"Hey kid," said my Dad over the phone, in a rather gentle and sweet tone. "Didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, no..." I lied, though I was sure he could hear the sleep in my voice. He didn't approve of people sleeping past nine o'clock in the morning. "I'm just...hanging out."

He made a small sound in his throat, not quite disapproval, more sad than anything. "I just got off the phone with Nigel. He told me what happened."

I withheld the urge to groan loudly. Instead, I just huffed a bit. "That was nice of him," I drawled, sarcastically. "I would have liked to break the news to you myself."

"Well, this way you don't have to," he said, and I could hear the smile behind his words. I knew what he meant, too; if he hadn't talked to Nigel, and Nigel hadn't told him what happened, it might have been days or even weeks before I gathered the courage to tell Dad the truth about what happened. "Anyway, how are you doing?"

My pounding headache and sudden heartache could attest to that just fine. "Well, I was about to slip into a coma until I died before you called."

There was a pause on the other end, but I could almost feel his sad smile. "How about a nice big breakfast out before you slip into that coma, hmm?"

The thought of a big fry-up and cups of English breakfast suddenly sounded too amazing to pass up; maybe I hadn't been as drunk as I thought I was. But my bed was so comfortable, and my head hurt, and I just felt like crap overall. I didn't think getting up was physically possible. "I don't think so, Dad," I told him. "I'm a little bit hungover."

"Breakfast is good hangover food," he said. "Come on, it'll do you some good."

I sighed and rubbed my face with my free time. "I don't think so, I'm just really out of it right now."

"Well, I'm parked outside your flat," he said, and I couldn't help the tiny exasperated sound that left my lips at that moment, and I could hear him snicker on the other end of the line too, the bastard. "I'll give you 20 minutes, but after that, I'm coming up."

He hung up before I could groan loudly into the phone; he probably knew it was coming.

/

When we sat down, the waiter came by and asked what we'd like to drink. Dad ordered black coffee, and I grinned up at the waiter. "Buck's fizz, please," and set my napkin down across my lap as the waiter wandered off. When I looked up, Dad was giving me a strange look from across the table. I shrugged my shoulders. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, and then he smiled a little. "I was going to say it was a little early, but..."

I shook my head. "Yeah, believe me, it isn't."

The restaurant was abuzz with activity all around us, weekday that it was, the dining room packed with happy breakfasters looking sharp and focused and intent on conversation and business ventures. It made me feel even more miserable, knowing I'd schlepped myself out of bed and thrown on jeans and a sweater I was sure was clean, didn't wash my hair, didn't bother putting on makeup...Dad was dressed sharply, as he always was; I bet the diners sitting around our table were looking at us thinking he was some sort of city official taking out a homeless girl for breakfast as part of some sort of humanitarian act, some sort of way to get back in touch with the people of the city.

"So," Dad began, leaning towards me. "What happened?"

I looked up at him and sighed. "I thought Nigel told you."

"He told me you failed the defence," he said. "But he didn't go into details."

I shook my head and rubbed my face. "I really don't want to talk about it."

He held up his hands as though I'd pulled a gun on him. "All right, fair enough."

I looked away from him, casting a low eye over the restaurant. Soft, grey morning London light poured in from the windows, and on the streets people were coming and going this way and that, talking to each other, engrossed in their mobiles, nodding along with their earbuds, or just passing by quietly, continuing their lives as they did, from day to day.

It was so hard to watch them and not know where I had to go next, what next step I had to take.

Across the table, Dad seemed to have picked up on my misery. He leaned forward so that we wouldn't be overheard. "Y'know I'm sure Nigel will convince the committee of a resubmit-"

I groaned buried my face in my hands. "Oh god, Dad, please don't. I can't even think about that without wanting to cry."

"All right, all right," he said, sitting back, and there was a sad, sympathetic look on his face, and a little smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Y'know it isn't over till it's over. There are ways these things can be mended."

I didn't want to scream at him there in the middle of the restaurant, but I was prepared to - but then he put out his hands once more, and placed them on the table. "That's all I'll say," he said.

I nodded. I knew he was just trying to help, like he always did. I just really couldn't deal with it. I couldn't hear it right then.

"What'd you do to your fingers?" Dad said, out of the blue.

I looked at him and frowned. "What?"

Dad pointed at my hand, a perplexed look on his face. "Your fingers, they're all bandaged up. You didn't burn yourself on the stove again, did you?"

I scowled and wanted to ask him what the hell he was talking about until I looked and realized to my surprise that yes, there were bandaids on two of my fingers, and then it all came crashing back to me, quite suddenly. The man on the sidewalk, the broken glass, the blood pool, the blond and his car and his snarl in my face...hadn't I dreamt it? I guess I hadn't.

"Paper cut," I told him, shrugging, and though he regarded me quizzically, his expression was quickly changed to that of disdain as the waiter set down my buck's fizz and I downed half the thing in one go.

/

When Dad dropped me off outside my flat, it was late in the morning, and after getting a crushing bear-hug, a kiss, and a promise that no matter what ever happened - he would always be so proud of me, I trudged up the stairs to my flat, feeling slightly better, but somehow still sick and miserable, feeling like above all people that I had disappointed, I had disappointed him, and that made the tears pinch in behind my eyes for the umpteenth time in the past 24 hours. I yanked my key out of the lock and was determined to wallow away the day in my pyjamas, with ice cream, bath water, and sadness.

That is until I closed the door behind me, and realized something was different.

Something was _very _different.

I'd been gone for hours, but there was a feeling in the air, a feeling that maybe someone was there in the flat, breathing the air, soaking in the light. For a second I stood at the door and contemplated calling Dad on his mobile and telling him to turn around and come back...but I was frozen in my stead.

I listened, but there was nothing, save for hte onise of the street below my windows. I looked around, but nothing was out of order: my desk by the window was covered with books, the cofee table with papers, shoes strewn about, the coat-hanger loaded with jackets and sweaters...I set my purse down and made my way cautiously into the tiny kitchen. The kettle sat on the stove, the little table was spotless, the window was closed...but I took the kitchen knife from the drawer and went about my flat very carefully, checking the linen closet, the bathroom and behind the curtain in the bathtub, my bedroom, under the bed and in my closet, but there was nothing, nothing was out of order, nothing out of place. The windows were closed, the door had been locked...and yet I could have sworn...I could have sworn someone had been there...

I shook it out of my head as I replaced the knife in the drawer and made sure the front door was locked. Guess I was more stressed out than I thought.

/

I drank overly strong screwdrivers in the bath and collapsed into bed in nothing but a towel. I was asleep in a matter of minutes.

I dreamt I was walking on the North side of the Thames along Embankment. It was black as night and the light in the lamps was bright, the air crisp and clear. As I walked, without another soul around, I noticed the lights in the lamps went out as I passed them; I would turn to look and London was swallowed into darkness behind me, but I continued on as though it was nothing, not a worry in the world.

I took my hands out of my pockets as I continued to walk, and hand grasped mine, warm and strong, a man's hand, but he grasped mine fondly and kindly, though securely. Though I never got a glimpse of its owner, I didn't feel the need; I smiled, and we swung our arms as we walked, hand in hand, with the light leaving the lamps as we went.

/


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Very special thanks to **Lilololly, RedHairedJenna, TheTalkingCupcake, anonymousx, CeliaSingsSongs, Mirae Descriderium, Turtle Kid the Woolgatherer, XXBlackfireXX, EmilyEverlasting, Super Widget, Starsaroundmars, RandomCitizen **and **Lucky D **for your reviews and support of this new project! :D Enjoy the update.

**The Curious Misunderstanding**

**Chapter Two**

**/**

I watched Nigel put drops in his eyes for what seemed like an agonizingly long time before he blinked rapidly, replaced his glasses, and sat back in his seat. "So, let's discuss the next step."

It'd been almost two weeks since the defense, and frankly I was surprised I hadn't heard that Nigel had hanged himself in his office in the days following. He was one of those real uptight professors, a real perfectionist, but I loved him and his teaching style and everything he taught me through the program, and in the drunken/hungover days after the failed defense lying around feeling hopelessly sorry for myself, I felt more burdened by the fact that I had disappointed him, that I had shamed him.

And he, bless him, didn't go into the whole _let's talk about what the fuck happened at the defense _like I had half expected he would. He gave me some time and then he called this meeting, after we'd both had a bit of time to get over the initial shock and the proceeding misery.

"What we're looking at next is a rewrite," he said, entwining his hands together, and then holding them up in a defensive pose after I gaped at him. "Not an entire rewrite, mind you. We'll make an outline of your arguments and decide what needs to be tweaked and what needs to be redone altogether."

I leaned forward in my seat, staring at his name plate on the desk in an effort to keep from being sick on the carpet. "How long until I have to resubmit?"

"Usually it's about six months," he said. "And then the committee will decide whether or not it is good enough to go to a second oral defense."

Six months...it seemed like a lot of time, plenty of time, in fact, but the idea of going back to that damned thesis to make revisions in an attempt to make it better was very disheartening. I was already exhausted.

"So, what I think you should do," he said. "Is go over your manuscript and make a very detailed abstract of each chapter. That will make it easier to spot problem themes and map out new ones."

I squeezed my eyes closed and withheld a groan. I shouldn't have been surprised, I knew there was going to be something that I'd have to do for the resubmit, and suddenly I was more than grateful that he wasn't suggesting a full rewrite of the thing. I didn't think I had it in me to an entire rewrite.

"Don't make that face at me, Nola," he said, half serious, half sympathetic. "Y'know in these cases, sometimes all you need is just a little tweak to make everything that much stronger."

I nodded. I knew he told the truth; if I was totally fucked, he would have told me. You could always count on Nigel for his staggering honesty. "All right," I said. "When would you like that by?"

Nigel shrugged. "Well, I say if you get it done by the end of the month, that'll be good, then I can have a chance to take a good look at it when I get back and we can go from there."

I frowned at him. Nigel was going on holiday to Knossos, though for some strange reason, I figured he would have cancelled it what with the news of my failure. "You're still going?"

He looked at me as if I were mad. "Of course I'm still going."

Part of me though that he was leaving to escape the shame of it all; he'd never had a student fail their graduate thesis before, or the oral defense of the thing. He didn't want to have to face his colleagues at the university and admit that his graduate student had failed. But after a shake of my head, I knew that he'd had the trip planned for a couple of months now, and I didn't blame him for not canceling. Holidays were too expensive.

Nigel regarded me very seriously, as though that last question had disturbed him, and he leaned forward on his elbows and looked me very gravely. "Nola, I know things aren't exactly merry around the maypole, but there are a few things you have to promise me you'll do."

I stared at him and shrugged, waiting for his conditions.

"First, you need to promise that you'll make an effort to get out of your flat," he said. "The isolation is dangerous, do not succumb. Take your manuscript and go for a coffee, sit in the BM, anywhere in London, really, but make sure you get out."

I nodded. This had been one of our agreements when I was still writing the stupid thing. Though I hid my face from him, unable to admit to him or even myself that the manuscript I'd printed was gone, thrown in the trash, along with the rest of my dignity the night following the defense.

"And," Nigel said. "You need to stay in contact with your friends, your Dad, everyone."

I smiled a little. There was little chance that Dad would let his three-times-a-week phone calls drop, no matter how busy things got. "Don't worry, I will."

"Good," he said, and then he stood up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I still have to run home before the plane leaves."

/

The Tube was on the last leg of the morning rush hour, thank goodness, though I was still annoyed that the only time Nigel could see me before he left was so bloody early in the morning. I still wasn't finished sleeping off the depressed feelings of the failed defense, and now new ones were taking over. Abstracts for each chapter in the manuscript by the end of the month...it was almost four weeks away, granted, he'd given me plenty of time. But I felt more annoyed than anything that I'd thrown out that stupid manuscript and I'd have to get it reprinted, all 82 pages of it, another twenty quid gone. Why I hadn't kept the stupid thing was amazing to me, though in my drunken stupor I was surprised I hadn't thrown myself off the Blackfriars into the Thames as well.

As I left the Tube station and set off into the morning for home, my stomach rumbled, and though I was tempted to stop and get a coffee and maybe a breakfast pasty or two, I shook it off, kept my head up, and made a beeline for my flat. I wanted a hot bath with a sweet cup of tea, and a fry-up, and then I wanted to fall back into bed for the rest of the damn day. If Dad called, he'd be satisfied knowing that Nigel and I had come to an arrangement on the next steps, no matter how uninspired those next steps seemed to be.

As I came around the corner of my street, at long last, I saw a black car parked on the curb directly in front of the door to my flat. I stared at it, frowning; at first glance from the distance I was at, I thought it was Dad's car, but as I came closer I realized I'd never seen it before, at least not that I could recall. It was very luxurious, probably quite expensive, and as I reached for my keys in my jacket pocket, I thought that maybe somebody on my street was getting married or going to a funeral, and that was their transportation - and then the driver's door opened.

"Nola Kross?"

I turned to look. "Yes?" And I caught the gaze of the driver, a man, and to my surprise, I recognized him. Yes, it was the tall, unfriendly giant who'd been so brusque the night I came across the unconscious man, the day I failed my defense. I was properly taken aback. "Oh. It's you."

He tipped his chin, his hands behind his back. "Sebastian."

So many things rushed at me in the moment I recognized him. I had a much better look at him; he was as tall as I remembered, startling so, and slight...and though his features were not altogether unpleasing to the eye, there was a severity in his countenance that was somewhat unnerving. He was dressed very sharply, very professional and business-like, clean-shaven and with his hair brushed back; it made all sorts of sense that this was his car, though looking at it, I wasn't sure it was the same car from that night.

I frowned. "Sebastian..." I looked at him and then up and down the street. Despite the fact it was nearly midmorning, there was hardly anyone out and about. It alluded to the surreality of the situation. "What, uh...what are you doing here?"

His expression was completely vanilla with the question, as though I'd asked the stupidest thing he'd ever heard, but, dipping back behind him to the driver's seat, he pulled out my manuscript and held it out for me to take. "Your name and address were in it."

I stared at it in his hand, not believing for a moment that it was my manuscript, but it was. It actually was. I couldn't believe the luck. I laughed a little and stepped forward to take it from him. "Thank you," I said, looking up at him, watching his lips, looking as though he wanted to smile, but didn't. "I uh..I really needed this back, thank you..." I hugged it, for no reason aside from the fact that having it saved me from going to the copy shop to have another one printed off. I stood there for a moment and he did the same, watching me, and it crossed my mind that I should have offered him a reward for returning it to me, though that seemed unnecessary, given the car and the clothes. He didn't look like he was hard up for cash. "Um, how's your friend?"

Something pulled at his features, like irritation, but then it was gone. It was fleeting; if I hadn't been watching, I would have missed it entirely. "He's doing well. In fact..." and he opened the back door to the car and stood there, looking at me expectantly. "I've come to issue an invitation."

I looked at the empty seat in the back of the sedan and felt the scowl knit slowly on my features. I looked up at him, suspiciously. "Invitation for what?"

He stuck one hand in his pocket, as though he anticipated my hesitation. "Breakfast."

I gaped at him. Seriously? "Breakfast?"

"Yes," he said, very no-nonsense, not blinking, not even once. "Though I've been instructed to come back for you at noon, if it's too early."

I stared at him. What the hell was he talking about? "Instructed? Instructed by whom? What is this?"

He took in a breath, and he tilted his head to the side just slightly; the blue of his eyes was a very sharp contrast against the dark colour of his suit. It seemed he knew he had some explaining to do first. "The unconscious man you came across those weeks ago?" he said, and I nodded. "That man is my employer, and he'd like to meet you."

I was taken aback, but at the same time my curiosity was piqued. "Why didn't he come himself?"

The answer to that was obvious and suddenly I felt like a fool for asking when I watched Sebastian take in a breath, probably getting annoyed. "Because he asked me to come fetch you. He's a very busy man, as you shall see."

I could see the man in my mind's eye, Sebastian employer, lying unconscious on the sidewalk amongst broken glass and blood. I could recall the darkness of his hair, his long eyelashes, the softness of his features...I was relieved to hear that he was doing all right, and admittedly very curious that he wanted to meet me. It seemed odd...but at the same time it didn't, it seemed courteous. And even as the _never take rides from strangers _mantra began sounding off in my head, as much as I stared at Sebastian, I sensed many things about him...but nothing entirely threatening. It seemed as though he was telling the truth.

"What if I refuse?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

Something played at his expression then; it almost looked as though he wanted to smile, like he and I both knew I was playing hard to get, like we both knew I wasn't about to refuse. Not even close. "Well," he said, averting his gaze for a second. "I suppose he would understand..." and then his gaze returned to me, and there was hard seriousness in his eyes that was not to be ignored. "Though I know he would be disappointed."

There was something laced in his voice when he said it, something between playfulness and a warning. I stared at him and pursed my lips, curiously, and then gestured towards my flat. "What if I go upstairs and call the police? Tell them you're trying to abduct me."

An eyebrow rose with piqued interest, and though he was careful to keep a smile off his lips, I could tell he wanted to. "_Are _you going to?"

No, but he didn't have to know that...and I certainly wasn't expecting that response. I shifted on my feet, unsure what to do or say at that point. "Well you must admit, this is very strange."

A titter escaped him, as though he knew all too well that it was strange, but then he shook his head. "We are going to Manni's at the Dayler Rowney Suites, Ms. Kross. For breakfast."

I blinked at him in surprise, wondering if I'd heard him correctly. The Dayler Rowney Suites was a crazy posh hotel that I'd only seen a couple of times before, and I didn't even know it had a restaurant. That would have seemed doubly suspicious...if it wasn't for the car that Sebastian was driving, and the suit that he was wearing, and his overall demeanor...

"I can come back for you at noon," Sebastian said, his tone suddenly rather gentle. "If it's too early."

I shook my head. "No, no. Let me just..." I motioned towards the door to my flat. "I'll just throw on some trousers and I'll be right down."

Sebastian nodded as he closed the door. "All right," he said, and pulled a pack of smokes out of his jacket pocket as he leaned back against the car.

Once upstairs in my flat, I set down my returned manuscript by its place next to the computer on my desk, and I pulled on a pair of black trousers and brushed out my hair, suddenly very thankful that I had decided to shower before going to see Nigel; I looked at least somewhat presentable, or presentable enough to be seen at a place like the Dayler Rowney Suites. I looked out the window at Sebastian; he continued to lean against the car nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, looking up and down the street. I pursed my lips and picked up my mobile, calling a number I knew off by heart.

It rang twice and then - "Hello?" It was Mrs. Penslivy, my landlady.

"Hello Mrs. Penslivy, it's Nola from upstairs," I said. "I wonder if you could do me a favour?"

"Of course, dear. What is it?"

I smiled as I stepped away from the window. "I'm going out for breakfast with a friend, but I'm supposed to meet my Dad later and my mobile's about to die. If I'm not back by noon, would you mind phoning him and letting him know I'll meet him at Beardsley?"

Meeting at Beardsley was our code for trouble.

"Certainly, dear," said Mrs. Penslivy. "Who's your friend?"

I grinned. Never underestimate the nosiness of a landlady who's children have all grown up and gotten married. "His name is Sebastian, he's waiting outside. Have a look."

She did, I could hear her moving on the other end of the phone. "Oh," she said, and I knew she was looking out her living room window right at him. "He is quite dapper, so tall...and what a beautiful car."

"Isn't it?" I asked, and peered out the window to look down at Sebastian once more. He continued to smoke, looking up and down the street at random, completely unaware that we were having a conversation about him. "He's taking me to the Dayler Rowney Suites for breakfast."

"Well dear, you mustn't keep him waiting." Mrs. Penslivy said, with a touch of excitement in her voice. "Have a lovely breakfast."

I smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Penslivy. I'll see you soon."

I hung up with Mrs. Penslivy, smiling to myself. Dad would've been so proud.

Sebastian tossed his cigarette when I came out the door, struggling to get my jumper on, and he opened the back door for me and waited until I was comfortably in before he closed the door and took the driver's seat. He cast me a fleeting glance in the rearview mirror before putting on his seatbelt and starting up the car, pulling away from the curb. I looked out the window up at my flat, thinking about Mrs. Penslivy, probably giggling to herself over a cuppa about how I _finally _had a gentleman caller, or so it seemed. I sat back in the comfortable leather seat, staring out the window at the city passing by, awakening in the early morning sunlight.

I looked up and caught Sebastian looking at me once more in the rearview mirror before returning his eyes to the road. I eased him a little smile and leaned forward a little. "This is odd, y'know that? Does your employer know that this is odd?"

He made a noise in his throat, something between a snort and a noise of indignation. "You'll see he prefers to do things...unconventionally."

That seemed to be all that he would offer in terms of conversation, and so I sat back in my seat and stared out the window at London passing by. We seemed to drive for a long time, and as I enjoyed the ride, I thought about Sebastian's employer, and suddenly couldn't deny the excitement I felt at that moment. I'd put up a bit of a fight, sure, but I was secretly delighted that he'd taken the time to find me and send Sebastian to ask me to join him for breakfast. Granted, if an invitation showed in the post, I'd have liked that too, but sending Sebastian was definitely more effective.

What was he like? He was a gentleman, that was for sure...or else he wouldn't have bothered to set all this up. He was probably rich, given the way he looked when I found him unconscious, and based on the fact he employed someone as put-together as Sebastian. The more we drove the more I started to fidget, and I fought to keep the smile off my face, worried that Sebastian would catch it in the rearview mirror.

After driving long enough to cross the city, we pulled up to the Dayler Rowney Suites and came to a stop in front of the waiting valets. One of them opened the door for me, giving me a smile and a nod which I struggled to return, and Sebastian handed the guy the keys to the car and held out his arm for me to follow. "This way."

Sebastian walked ahead in strong, confident strides, and I struggled to keep up with him as a I followed him through the hotel's very decadent lobby, with its massive koi pond and greenery and polished cherrywood desks and furnishings. I felt totally underdressed in my trousers and Lululemon jumper as the hotel workers gave me confused glances while I followed Sebastian, who, with his clothes and his disposition, easily looked like he could have owned the place, and carried himself as if he did, too.

I followed him through the lobby towards the back, where the restaurant was, and my heart began to beat a little faster in anticipation as Sebastian held open the glass door for me. The host offered me a smile as I came inside, as though waiting to escort me to a table, but as soon as he saw Sebastian, who gently touched my elbow and gestured me ahead, the host merely nodded with respect, his smile widening, and cast neither of us another glance.

Manni's was an incredible restaurant, with the far wall all pane glass letting in the early morning sunlight with a gorgeous view of the gardens. The place was almost completely empty, save for a few breakfasters scattered amongst the four corners of the room. Sebastian walked ahead of me and I followed, looking around, my heart continuing to pound with excitement.

And then I saw him.

He was sitting at a table next to the glass by himself, with his back to us. I walked behind Sebastian slowly, trying to take in as much about him as I could from where I was at; his hair was dark as I remembered and finely combed back, and he was reading a newspaper while he waited. Sebastian stepped forward, presumably to announce that we'd arrived, though he didn't even say a word. Didn't have to, apparently. I felt my heart slam against my chest and then leap up into my throat as he set down his paper and stood from his seat.

I stared at him as he turned towards me and smiled. I was frozen, completely rooted to the spot, as he stepped forward, with an incredible smile on his flush pink lips, to take my hand in both of his. "Nola," he breathed my name, with the dreamy, deep drawl of a Dubliner's accent, and I felt the breath leave my body altogether. "So glad to have a proper introduction. Jim Moriarty."

/


End file.
